There you my fruit. And seed. And alone and one. There I look for you. Among all the names. There she, life. It faces us. With your hunger. With our hunger. It feeds on it. It devours a full mouth, full of drive. Who eats his arms. It devours sight. Similar to how death does. The void is filled with meat. Ours. Word evacuated meat. It splattered the windowpanes with its accumulated fat from time and hunger. Of dead seasons. Who drifted from the land, sowing after sowing, and futile harvests.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/hesis.